“Nothing to say,” Wells said. “Nothing at all.”
WHITBY OPENED THE LAPTOP in front of him, tapped the keyboard. On the flat-panel monitor behind him, a map of Pakistan appeared and a dozen red circles lit up.
Whitby clicked on a circle near Islamabad. A satellite image appeared, a warehouse on a small army base. The photograph was extremely high-resolution, sharp enough to reveal dents on the Jeeps parked beside the warehouse.
Whitby clicked again. The satellite photograph disappeared, replaced with a blurry image of six large bunkers. “From a Predator with the new radar package,” Whitby said.
“That’s through the wall?” Shafer said.
“Yes.”
Beside the image, acronyms and numbers marched down the side of the screen: “5 (PLU/UA) Y 100/300 GS 400 (UR) PTI Med/High RA High AA Medium OTR High.”
“Any guesses what we’re looking at? Humor me, Mr. Shafer.”
“A Pakistani nuclear-weapons depot?”
“No fooling you.” Whitby ran a pointer down the list of acronyms, reading as he went: “Five weapons. Plutonium. Unarmed. Yield of one hundred to three hundred kilotons each. Four hundred guards on the site. No heavy weapons. Possibility of Taliban infiltration medium to high. Road access high. Air access medium. Overall threat risk high.”
Whitby clicked back to the main map.
“We have similar information for every nuke in the Pakistani arsenal. They have eighty-two weapons now, by the way. We knew they’d been moved around, split up, but we had no idea how much. Seems Musharraf”—theformer Pakistani president—“decided that scattered sites would be the best way to save enough weapons to survive an Indian first strike. Now, of course, the Paks have a slightly different problem. As do we.”
Whitby pointed out the red circles, one outside Rawalpindi, the other near Lahore. “These two bases are our biggest problem. Both with senior commanders who are sympathetic to the Islamist movement.”
“Why doesn’t the army move them?”Shafer said. “Or replace the commanders?”
“You know better than that. Every general is his own little power center. And those warheads, they’re prestigious. Tricky to ask a general to give up control. Especially one who might have a line to Al Qaeda.”
Whitby closed the map. “Mr. Shafer, you’re welcome to examine these estimates for as long as you like. At your leisure. I know you’re a strategic thinker. And in your strategic”—Whitby’s repeated use of the word somehow made it, and Shafer, sound ridiculous—“analysis, is this information precious?”
“If it’s accurate, sure.”
“It comes from the very highest levels of the ISI. It’s accurate. They even took us inside six depots. And we’ve checked the others with Predators and satellites, and as far as we can tell, they told the truth.” Whitby paused. “I don’t need to explain what this does for us, do I? Why do you think we bulked up in Afghanistan? Not just to play with the Taliban. We have a QRF”—a quick reaction force—“at Bagram on permanent alert. One of these depots gets hot, we’re in the air in fifteen minutes. For the first time ever, we have the Paki arsenal under control.”
“A genuine coup,” Shafer said. “But please. I’m a bit slow. How does this connect to 673, the murders? Last I checked, none of the detainees at the Midnight House worked for the Pakistani army. Or the ISI.”
“I can’t tell you. But I promise, this is related to information that 673 developed.”
“You promise. Sweet of you.”
“It’s true,” Duto said.
Shafer turned his head to Duto. “How long have you known about this? ”
As an answer, Duto coughed into his hand.
And then Wells saw the missing piece. One of them, anyway.
This map was the reason that Frederick Whitby, former congressman, former mid-level Pentagon analyst, had become one of the most powerful men in Washington. The reason he was the director of national intelligence and Duto was at Langley reporting to him. And it had come out of the Midnight House. But the Midnight House had been rotten. If the FBI’s investigation into the murders of Task Force 673 went the wrong way, Whitby’s triumph would lose its shine.
Shafer got it, too, Wells saw. He lifted his head, a dog on the scent. “Is this why you’re obstructing the FBI’s investigation?”
“I’m not—”
“You blocked them from seeing the letter to the IG.”
“That letter is nothing but rumor. Totally unsubstantiated.”
“It’s unsubstantiated because you didn’t let the inspector general investigate it.”
“It has nothing to do with these murders. Whoever’s killing those men, a foreign terrorist group, a domestic criminal, the FBI has the tools it needs.”
“Does the FBI know you oversaw 673 at the Pentagon?” Shafer said.
“Senior bureau officials are aware of my previous position and don’t believe it’s pertinent to their investigation.” Whitby was tense now, falling into bureaucratic jargon, Wells thought.
“Maybe if they knew about the letter, they’d reconsider.”
“Mr. Shafer. You and Mr. Wells have not an iota of authority to investigate these crimes. Director Duto made a mistake in thinking otherwise.”
“I made a mistake,” Duto agreed. Almost cheerfully. Not even an eyelid twitch.
“We can’t risk letting this leak. If the Pakistani public finds out we’ve been monitoring their nuclear stockpile, there will be riots. The army will face enormous pressure to relocate the weapons. At best, we will then lose our knowledge of where they’re housed. At worst, terrorists will try to steal them as they’re being moved. And none of this has anything to do with the 673 murders. So, I’m asking you now, don’t get in the way. Let the FBI do its job.”
“But there’s something I don’t get,” Wells said. Playing the naïf, as they all seemed to expect of him. Whitby turned his frozen blue eyes on Wells.
“You were in charge of 673?”
“In a manner of speaking. I helped set it up. It ran autonomously.”
“But you saw the take.”
“Yes.”
“And you know what tactics they used?”
“It ran autonomously.”
“I didn’t ask if you okayed them. I asked if you knew of them.”
“We’re not here to talk about this.”
“Bear with me,” Wells said. “My question is, how can you be so sure of the information that 673 developed without knowing exactly what they did to the prisoners?”
“The information was incontrovertible. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Did it come from the missing detainees?”
“What missing detainees?”
“The two who aren’t in the system. The two who don’t exist.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do. There are twelve prisoner numbers mentioned in the letter. Ten match detainees. The other two don’t go anywhere.”
“That letter is nothing but rumor. It’s quite possible whoever wrote it decided to put in fake PINs to cause this kind of trouble.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“I am through discussing the letter, Mr. Wells. It should have been destroyed.”
Wells wondered if he should push further, bring up Jim D’Angelo, the former NSA software engineer who’d gotten the no-bid contract. Then decided to wait. They still didn’t know exactly what D’Angelo might have done for Whitby, or why. They didn’t know where Duto stood. They needed evidence, not hunches.
“So, that’s it,” Shafer said. “We leave it alone.”
“You leave it alone.”
“And what if somebody picks up the phone, calls us with a tip?”
“You refer them to the FBI.”
“And if we happen to stumble on some bit of evidence—”
“You give it to the FBI.”
“Got it,” Shafer said. “Got it, John?”
“Got it, El
lis.”
“So, we’re done here?”
“Most certainly.”
Shafer pushed himself back from the table. Wells followed.
“Gentlemen,” Whitby said. “I’m not sure I’ve made myself clear. Don’t press me on this. Director Duto can’t protect you. Your reputations won’t protect you. You are to stay away from this investigation. That is a direct order. Understood?”
Wells raised his hand. “Question.”
Whitby stared at Wells’s upraised arm as if he wanted to chop it off. “Is this funny to you, Agent Wells?”
“I’m just used to a more direct threat. Drop your gun or I shoot you in the head. That kind of thing. I can be a bit slow. And you’re being, you know—”
“Vague—” Shafer said. “He’s being vague, John. And that’s unhelpful. I, too, want to know exactly what’s at risk here. Will we be losing our parking passes at Langley? Our per diems on road trips?”
Whitby smiled. And Wells saw that they weren’t close to cracking him. “I’ll bring you in as material witnesses, hold you until the FBI finds the killers. Worst case, you two get stuck in detention for years and even the agency can’t get you out.”
Whitby slid a thin, red-bordered file folder across the table to Wells. Wells opened it. Gruesome photographs, a crime scene in Moscow. Wells recognized the men. He’d killed them.
“Murder, plain and simple,” Whitby said. “Not a CIA operation. Just a rogue agent, out of control, killing FSB agents. The same man who just went to Cairo and pissed off our closest Arab ally. Make for some interesting reading in the Post, wouldn’t it? Or Vanity Fair. It’s more a Vanity Fair kind of story, the hero with the feet of clay. And you’re in jail, no way to explain yourself.”
“The same rogue agent who stopped a nuclear attack on Washington—”
“That didn’t happen, Mr. Shafer,” Whitby said. “Or did it? It’s so highly classified, it’s practically a myth. And it’s going to stay that way. Could provoke national hysteria otherwise.”
“Times Square wasn’t classified.”
“Times Square was a long time ago. What’s he done lately?”
Whitby slid another red-bordered folder to Shafer. “As for you—I’ve got twenty years of you giving classified information to the French, Israelis, Saudis. Even the Russians.”
“Trading. Not giving.”
“Was it authorized? In writing?”
“We always got as much back as we gave,” Shafer said. “Or more.”
“I’ll bet I can find a couple exceptions. Those might be tough to explain to a jury. Or the Post. Yes. Strikes me as more of a Post story. Nothing operatic about this one. Meat-and-potatoes espionage.”
Wells slid back the file.
“Director Whitby,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”
“The same. Agent Nieves will show you out.”
THAT NIGHT, Shafer and Wells sat high in the upper deck at Nationals Park. D.C. had once been home to the famously lousy Washington Senators. Sportswriters had joked that Washington was “first in war, first in peace, and last in the American League” before the Senators decamped to Minnesota in 1960 and became the Twins.
Now Washington had a new team, the Nationals, itself a refugee from Montreal, with a new name and a new six-hundred-million-dollar ballpark. But the Nationals were no better than the Senators had been. And Nationals Park was three-quarters empty even on sunny days, making it an excellent place to avoid eavesdroppers.
Wells stretched his long legs on the seat in front of him. He and Shafer were in the upper deck, with an entire section to themselves. “So?”
“He can make it messy for sure. He knows how to work the press. Knows your stuff is classified and tough to leak. It really would be a problem if people knew how close we cut it last year. Meanwhile, Whitby goes to town. Bold move. Instead of dancing around your reputation, he attacks it straight on.”
“Paints me as out of control and dangerous.”
“Thinking you’re above the law. Yep.”
“How could he be so wrong?”
Shafer laughed. They both knew Whitby’s accusations had more than a grain of truth.
“What about you?”Wells said.
“He’s got ammo. You see it in context, it makes sense, but if he takes a couple examples, Shafer gave this satellite imagery to the Saudis, this NSA intercept to the French—it would take some time to explain to a jury. More important, money. Probably all I have.”
“And Vinny’s locked up tight.”
“Looks that way,” Shafer said. “Though I have a theory on that.”
“You think he set us up.”
“I’ll tell you when it’s all done. I promise. So, what do you think, John? Do we quit? Walk away? Give the man what he wants?”
Wells didn’t bother to answer.
“I didn’t think so,” Shafer said.
Far below them, a Nationals batter—a slim black guy who reminded Wells of Darryl Strawberry circa 1986, tall and lean and quick—stroked a scorching line drive to right field. It spun into the corner, and by the time the Brewers outfielder corralled it, the batter was rounding second, eating up the basepaths with smooth, long strides. The right fielder fired a strike from the corner, but by the time the third baseman got the tag down, the runner had touched the bag for a triple. The crowd, such as it was, cheered.
“Nice,” Wells said.
“You used to be able to run like that. Must be hard to get old for an athlete like you. Feel the reflexes go.”
“I still have enough left to toss you over the railing.”
Shafer squeezed Wells’s biceps. “Maybe. How about putting that muscle to good use?”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
“We have to go to Jim D’Angelo. As soon as possible. Find out who asked him to replace those names. And why.”
“But won’t he run straight to Whitby?”
“Not if we play him right.”
PART THREE
21
SWAT VALLEY, PAKISTAN. AUGUST 2008
The white Mitsubishi van bumped through the center of Derai, a dusty farm town in the heart of the Swat Valley, one hundred miles northwest of Islamabad. The road through Derai was wide and potholed, lined with swaybacked two-story buildings that leaned on one another as unwillingly as employees at a team-building exercise.
The streetlights were out, and the stores were closed, their metal gates pulled down. The streets were empty aside from an old man slowly pedaling a bike ahead of the van, his skinny brown calves rising and falling under his robe. The only proof of life came from the televisions playing in the apartments above the stores.
Given what they’d seen on the road into Derai, the lack of activity wasn’t surprising, Dwayne Maggs thought. Maggs sat in the back of the Mitsubishi, massaging his aching right leg, which hadn’t fully recovered from the bullet he had taken two months before. In the front seat were two Delta operatives, both able to pass for local.
A skinny white cat skulked across the road, head low, fur matted by the summer rain that had been pelting down for an hour. The cat ignored the van with the studied nonchalance of a Manhattan jay-walker and disappeared into an alley on the other side of the street, beside a blown-out police station, its windows gone, concrete hanging at odd angles from its walls. The cops had fled across the river, to Mingora, a bigger and marginally safer town. A gray-and-white cat surveyed the street from between two sandbags atop the station. The cat was probably about as effective as the Paki cops had been, Maggs thought.
Outside Derai, the van turned southeast on the narrow road that dead-ended at their ultimate objective, a tiny farming village called Damghar Kalay. Maggs snuck a glimpse at his watch. Ten fifteen. Right on schedule. On the edge of town, a necklace of lights flickered on a minaret, glistening in the rain-streaked sky.
Aside from the minaret, Damghar was dark. A couple miles beyond it, on the opposite bank of the Swat River, the lights of Mingora glowed. Min
gora was the regional capital. With one hundred seventy-five thousand residents, it retained hints of vitality that Derai had lost. Mingora, Derai, and the villages around them lay on a belt of flatland that the icy Swat River had carved from the mountains of the Hindu Kush. With hot summers and plenty of water, the southern Swat Valley was surprisingly fertile, an agricultural oasis. The mountains around it were largely uninhabited, a trackless and beautiful wilderness that in happier times had been called “the Switzerland of Pakistan.” Just seventy-five miles north of here, the massive peak called Falaksair topped twenty thousand feet, a stone fist punching through the sky.
Yet the mountains had not buffered the Swat from the upheaval shaking Pakistan. For years, Talib militants had encroached into the valley from their strongholds on the Afghan border, one hundred miles west. By the summer of 2008, their takeover was nearly complete. Police and government officials hunched in their compounds as black-turbaned Talibs patrolled the streets of Mingora, enforcing their own version of sharia—Islamic law—from the backs of their pickups. They taxed store owners, burned girls’ schools, beat anyone they suspected of crimes against Islam. In June 2008, they even destroyed Pakistan’s only ski resort, at Malam Jabba, twenty-five miles west of Mingora. The Talibs didn’t take kindly to frivolities like snow sports. No one would confuse the Swat Valley with Switzerland anymore.
The Taliban’s control of the Swat did not yet extend to the main road into the valley. Traffic to and from Islamabad flowed without roadblocks. Still, driving up here was risky, especially for Maggs. All six of the Deltas on this mission had rough brown skin and long black beards and spoke Arabic, Pashto, or both. On the road, they didn’t stand out. As a black man, Maggs didn’t have that camouflage. The Mitsubishi was a cargo van, no side windows. Maggs had spent much of the trip lying on his seat, invisible to anyone outside.
Behind the van, the other four Deltas followed in George Fezcko’s favorite armored Nissan sedan. Its trunk held AKs, Glocks, and a handful of grenades. In contrast, the van’s cargo area was empty, aside from a three-speed bicycle identical to a million others in Pakistan—and a black bag that held the most important piece of equipment of all.
The Midnight House Page 25